A message to vulner able ladies throughout New York City: Whatever you do, do not call the cops.

It’s open season on dames. And the aggressor and tormentor of the weak and the needy might be the last person you’d expect. He’s the helpful, smiling — and purely evil — cop in a crisp uniform.

A Manhattan jury yesterday had to decide whom it hated more: a rotten police officer who admitted he lied, cheated, cuddled, kissed and groped a drunken woman. Or the woman herself.

The lady in question, 29, was so inebriated on the night of Dec. 7, 2008, she claimed she was incapable of fighting off the guy wearing a badge.

But there never was any contest. The jury loathed her on sight.

“Not guilty!” Forewoman Rita Moore didn’t recite the words so much as she sang them, triumphantly. This after Judge Gregory Carro asked if jurors believed Officer Kenneth Moreno, perhaps the dirtiest cop on the force, was responsible for the crime of rape.

“Not guilty!” Moore cried, so happily, so many times I lost count. Not guilty of burglary. Of falsifying business records. It gave her perverse pleasure to punish a woman the jurors so clearly despised.

Officer Franklin Mata, charged with acting as Moreno’s lookout — which in the eyes of the law would make him equally guilty of rape — also got the forewoman’s star treatment.

“Not guilty!” she sang. Only when asked for the panel’s verdicts on misdemeanor charges of official misconduct did she say, reluctantly, “guilty.” Three times for each cop. In a quieter voice.

The panel was stacked against the accuser. One woman juror had the decency to walk into the courtroom looking pained and tormented, her head cradled in her hand.

But when the judge asked jurors individually if they believed the pair was not guilty of anything more serious than returning to the lady’s apartment — three times, using her key — the pained panelist said in a strong voice that she agreed with the verdicts.

These guys might get as much jail time if charged with spitting on the sidewalk.

The mother of Officer Mata, 29, the pathetic figure accused of enabling his 43-year-old partner, cried, dabbed at her face with a tissue, then lunged for her BlackBerry to spread the news.

Moreno’s mother issued a sphinx-like smile as the verdicts were read. She, too, grabbed a BlackBerry.

Moreno showed not a shred of sympathy for his accuser. “I think she made the whole thing up.” He did not say why.

The nonsensical verdict ignored every piece of evidence against the men, who found the drunk woman spilling out of a taxi near her Manhattan apartment. The cops then called 911 to report a fictitious suspicious person in her building, so they would have an excuse to enter, and re-enter, the vomit-soaked lady’s place.

Moreno admitted canoodling the drunk gal, and singing Bon Jovi tunes. Later, when the woman demanded to know if both men raped her, Moreno replied, “It was only me.” He said he wore a condom, an exchange caught on audiotape.

None of it mattered. The jury made a choice. And they made a deal with the devils.

The damage is great. The fabric of trust that existed between women and the police has been shredded to bits.